Silent Knight
by Lady Gwenevere Smith
Summary: Christmastime is usually cold and silent at the Wayne Manor. But maybe Bruce's heart will warm up a little from some holiday cheer.


**Silent Knight**

_Absolute silence leads to sadness. It is the image of death.__  
__—__Jean Jacques Rousseau_

Snow fell softly to the ground, falling gently into little clumps atop the bushes and dusting lightly across the large branches of the venerable oak trees on the massive lawn. It would have been a beautiful sight, had it not been for the undeniable sense in the air of loneliness and foreboding. The grand manor house, set atop the hill overlooking the city, was old and sprawling, a relic of grandeur and simpler times long since passed. Once there had been laughter echoing on the grounds as a young child ran pell-mell down the hill to the gated entry to greet his father. Now there was nothing but silence, an all consuming morose silence that seemed to come from the very earth itself. People in the grimy city below used to look up at that hill as a beacon of hope; they looked at it as a place to aspire to, to one day be able to walk its halls was seen as the highest honor. Now everyone avoid the place, saying that there's something not quite right about the place, something eerie and almost haunted about it.

The owner of the mansion, a tall, broad shouldered, severely handsome man with sharp, almost cruel eyes, stood looking out a second story window, peering over the grounds from behind an old fashioned lacey curtain. His gaze was almost so penetrating that one could argue he had X-ray vision, though naturally, he didn't. He was just a man, a man who was now lost in thoughts of the past, his past, when thing were different, when the world was kinder, simpler, and he didn't have the worries and regrets hanging over him like a dark cloud like he did now. Back then he was just a boy, young, rambunctious, and carefree, with his only concern being the number of presents under the tree with his name on them. The thing he had wanted most, a Zorro costume, complete with a fake sword, was waiting for him under that massive pine tree, he just knew it. He'd been badgering his mother and father for months for it, so he could wear the costume on opening night for the new Zorro movie he'd been dying to see for ages. Had he known then….known…

He shook his head, hoping for once that he might be able to wipe away his ever present grief with the motion. That never worked.

Bruce Wayne turned away from the window and returned to his study where he was reviewing the latest statistics on Wayne Corp. Lucius Fox had insisted he, Bruce, had a responsibility as the face of the company to at least know the most basic facts of what was going on. Little did Lucius know that Bruce had long since hacked into the company database and monitored every employee's activity from the moment they stepped foot into the building until the moment they left. For example, Lucius always logged in at precisely 8:01 am every morning, and he always checked his email first, followed by logging in to his _Wall Street Journal_ and _Daily Planet_ accounts to check on the latest news, then he spent a good hour reviewing overseas accounts and stocks. Bruce was rather fond of Lucius, and considered him to be the most capable person to run his company. The fact that Lucius didn't ask questions when Mr. Wayne made bizarre requests for tank-like off road vehicles so that he could go "spelunking" made Lucius that much more valuable. Nosey people were not to be trusted, and Lucius, no matter how curious he might have been, never pried into his bosses extracurricular activities.

A knock at the door announced that Alfred had arrived with lunch. It smelled delicious, but Bruce was too interested in his work to pay any more attention beyond motioning for the butler to set his tray down on the side table, next to the roaring fire. After a moment, Alfred cleared his throat.

"Master Wayne," he said with an air of someone approaching a delicate subject in the most tentative manner, "I was just thinking that it has been quite some time since the house was decorated for Christmas. It always did look lovely at this time of year, when it was lit up properly for the season."

Bruce didn't say anything, or raise his eyes from his papers. Alfred considered his employers silence as an invitation to continue, so he did.

"Well, sir, I was just going to say that I have received a flyer from the local Boy Scout troop, and they will be out on the tenth to hang lights and decorate houses for those who wish to donate fifty dollars. I thought it was a reasonable offer, and so I have informed the leader of the troop to arrive with his volunteers at 9 am sharp. I figured you would be…ah…finished, with your patrols by then, and that would allow enough time to….tidy up a bit."

Bruce still didn't say anything, but continued to stare at his reports. Truth be told, he did dearly miss the holly wreaths and ribbons and bows his mother used to adorn almost every flat surface she could fine when the holiday season came. But he had put all those things away…after….it happened.

"You should make them some of your hot chocolate and shortbread. It's supposed to be cold on the tenth and I'm sure the boys will need some warming up after being outside all day."

Alfred smiled, and nodded, saying "Yes sir. Would you like me to save you a batch? I can make the stars with the red sprinkles if you'd like."

"That will be fine, Alfred."

The butler nodded and went to leave the room, but Bruce called him back, handing him a check to give the Boy Scout troop leader. The old Englishman's eyes widened slightly when he read the amount.

"Quite a generous donation, sir. I'm sure the troop will put this to good use."

Bruce said nothing, and returned to his work. Alfred left the room, making sure to close the door softly behind him. He telephoned the local Scout leader, giving him directions on how best to reach the manor house to avoid the icy roads that lead to the main path, and then set to work to try and find Mrs. Wayne's old Christmas albums she always blasted once the calendar changed to December. Soon, the kitchen was filled with the sounds of Nat King Cole's smooth voice, the sound wafted up to Bruce's study, where he was still seated, alone at his desk. This time, however, he wasn't looking at statistics, but rather, an old family portrait. His father was dressed as Santa, complete with beard and hat, while his mother was dressed as Mrs. Clause, and he, Bruce, was dressed up as a little elf. It was hard to believe he'd ever allowed his mother to put him in such a ridiculous getup, but yet, there he was, in his pointed ears and curly toed shoes, laughing uproariously as his father tickled him.

"Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad," Bruce whispered, as one tiny little tear threatened to trickle down his face.

He blinked it away quickly, and went back once again to his work, humming softly under his breath, "all is calm…all is bright…."


End file.
